


The Iceman, Melted

by lyricalsoul



Series: Mycroft's In Love [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John the Peacemaker, M/M, Mycroft is in Love, Mystrade-Relationship, Sherlock being a bratty little bro, heart to heart talks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:58:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crime scene, an injury. Sherlock meddles, Mycroft confesses, Lestrade listens. Things are said, ice is melted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Iceman, Melted

Three weeks after Howard Evans turned himself over to the authorities, my mobile rings, and I look down to see Gregory’s number on the screen. Momentarily surprised, a dozen reasons why he would be calling me flit through my mind, but I discard them all in seconds. I haven’t heard from him since the text he sent. I didn’t respond then, and dread to answer his call now. However, as curiosity is my Achilles heel, I have to answer so that I can know… I clear my throat, and hope that I don’t sound as nervous as I feel. “Yes, Detective Inspector?”

“You wish.”

“Sherlock.” My heart sinks with disappointment. “Up to your old pick-pocketing tricks again? Very childish.”

“As you have often said. However, this time, it has benefited me greatly.” He laughs. “The things you can learn from a phone are simply amazing. I’m surprised more blackmail isn’t carried out with all the spicy texts that people send.”

I am absolutely certain that there is nothing incriminating on Gregory’s phone, as I took the liberty of removing all but the most recent texts, and erasing his call history. To be fair, it was done during a fit of pique, but I regret nothing. “I’m quite busy at the moment, so if you have a question, or care to tell me why you feel the need to behave like a comic book villain, I’m willing to listen. Otherwise, return Lestrade’s mobile, and go and pester John.”

“I’m so disappointed that you didn’t feel that I should know about your happy news.”

“Sherlock, you are being tedious. Where is Lestrade?”

“Lestrade? Oh, you mean dear, sweet _Gregory_?” His droll tone sets my teeth on edge. “You know you cannot hide things from me. Especially something big like you having a Yarder… _my_ Yarder in your ridiculously expensive bed.”

I refuse to rise to the bait. “Answer the question.”

“Fine,” he sighs, his disgust that I won’t play his mind games evident. “Your… _boyfriend_ … got himself hurt, and won’t let anyone see to him. He might be in shock, or have a concussion, malaria, or some such dangerous condition. Perhaps a few whispered words of love in his ear may get him to let the paramedics see to his wounds.”

That Gregory may be seriously injured spurs me to action. “Where?” I am already shoving papers into my desk drawer, summoning my assistant and driver from the desk phone.

“Since you’re always watching, big brother, I’m sure you know exactly where we are, so get here. And do hurry. I have better things to do than to stand around, holding your injured boyfriend’s hand. Boring.”

“ _Sherlock_!” I hear John’s exasperated hiss in the background.

“I’m on my way. And you will stay until I get there, Sherlock.” I ring off, and in moments, am in my car, heading toward the crime scene.

***

I step out of the car, barely avoiding a puddle of what is most definitely not mud. Leave it to Sherlock to solve a crime in a place littered with human waste. 

John meets me as I close the door. “What’s happened?” I ask.

Sherlock looks at me, cataloguing all he sees, but thankfully, does not comment on whatever it is he has deduced. Yet. “Fifteen minutes from the end of the call. Impressive, given your usual slothful nature.”

“None of that now,” John says. “You two want to fight, do it later. Lestrade is our main concern right now.”

“Oh, Lestrade is fine,” Sherlock says with a dismissive wave. “The ambulance driver is talking to his mistress about ‘last night’. If Lestrade were in danger, they’d be working on him.”

I school myself not to react as I turn toward the ambulance. Gregory is sitting on the back hinge, ubiquitous orange blanket about his slumped shoulders. The urge to rush over and see to him is overwhelming, but I tamp it down, and turn away, looking at John with both eyebrows raised. “Tell me.”

John bristles at my tone, but in true John Watson fashion, gives me what I want. “Well, Arlo DeMelveny, knife thrower extraordinaire, took exception to your brother’s spectacularly dramatic explanation of the crime, which included choice words such as ignorant, and incompetent, and threw two knives at Sherlock. Lestrade saw them coming, pushed Sherlock aside, but got nicked in the side by both knives, the unlucky bastard. And to top it off, he hit his head rather hard when he fell.”

“Concussion?” I ask.

“I don’t think so, but I can’t get close enough to tell because he’s already had a go at the attendant, and at Sherlock, and I’d prefer to not be hit today. I don’t think the knives went in too deeply, but he yanked them out, and now he may need stitches and a shot of antibiotics because… well, as you can see there’s filth everywhere, and Arlo looked like he could use a flea dip at the least.”

I look at Sherlock for residual damage, but don’t see anything to be concerned about. I am rather disappointed that Gregory missed punching him in the mouth. “Where is Arlo?”

“Sergeant Donovan took him into custody,” John answers. He looks over at Lestrade, then back at me. “Ah, I uh… thought… well, Sherlock said that you and Greg are, well… close, and so I thought maybe you could make him be seen to?”

Before I can reply, Sherlock smirks and says, “We may have been a bit hasty in our deduction, John, since it seems my brother and Lestrade are not so close anymore.” He flips Gregory’s mobile from hand to hand. “Last text with meaning sent nine weeks ago; another text sent three weeks ago, but you didn’t reply. I wonder why?” He moves to stand at my back, and I steel myself for the blazing deductions, but instead he comes back to stand in front of me.

“Sherlock…” I let my hard tone convey the warning that I am certain he will ignore.

“Hmm… what could be so troubling to my brother that has him not eating or sleeping? Since it seems that Lestrade is suffering from the same malady, maybe the troubles are related. What did you do, Mycroft? Did you hurt his feelings by standing him down for arresting your psychotic six man? When I read that he’d turned himself in, I was surprised because that meant you changed your mind. The Iceman never changes his mind once it’s made up. Just what did you tell the PM to get him to countermand the order? Did you lie and tell him that it was for Queen and country? Or did you tell him that you hurt your boyfriend’s feelings, and needed to make it right? Going soft for love again, eh?”

“Whatever happened is none of your concern,” I say coldly. “Mind yourself, brother.”

“You made Lestrade my concern when you appointed him my handler,” Sherlock shoots back, unfazed by my tone. “He’s been distracted and practically useless for the past three and half months now. He almost got run down by a cab last week, had a dust-up in a pub, and now this. I chalked it up to an approaching mid-life crisis or the misfortune of being in a… relationship with you,  but it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s gone off the rails, and nothing’s right with it.  Seriously, Mycroft, if you had to have a bit of rough, did you have to pluck it from the Yard?”

Frustrated, I step forward until our noses are nearly touching. “You are treading very dangerously, Sherlock Holmes.”

He meets my eyes dead on. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend that he isn’t just that for you. I knew he was right up your street the minute I saw that you noticed him. All your warehouse dealings and car rides under the guise of checking on me. And he liked you too, though heaven knows why, since you're way out of his league.”

“Sherlock… I’m warning you.”

“I’m sure you haven’t forgotten good old Colin from Uni? Rugby chappie, all fine muscles, with a hint of danger, dumb as a biscuit, and a penchant for attracting bookish gingers…? Of course you haven’t forgotten, since it was what shut you down and made you into such a cold, unfeeling block of ice. You let him get in close, and you were gagging for it so badly, he just-“

Seeing red, I push the handle of my umbrella under his chin and snap his mouth shut. “Shut your bloody hole, Sherlock!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see John edging closer to Sherlock’s side. “Hey, enough of that now…”

Sherlock pushes the handle aside and flexes his jaw. “Truth hurts?”

“We could talk about truths, dear brother,” I counter, making a show of brushing off my lapels and straightening my cuffs, “if you wouldn’t mind me telling your intrepid doctor here what event caused you to be so adamantly ‘married to your work’…? Started with a dog bite to the ankle, if memory serves.” I snatch the phone from his hand, and put it in my pocket. “Now, stop being a nuisance, and go find another puzzle to keep your interest.”

John turns to Sherlock with a look that says there will be discussions later. He tugs Sherlock away, out of my space. “Enough of this. Sherlock, go and stand over there. Uh, Mycroft, if you could just go and see about Greg…?

Sherlock bristles at the command. “I’m not a child, John, and I’m certainly not afraid of my brother.”

“You should be,” I warn him. “Because if you refer to Gregory as a bit of rough again, or mention… _him_ , I will show you just how cold and unfeeling I can be.”

John nudges Sherlock. “Let’s go. We’ve got statements to give.”

Sherlock smirks, and puts the collar of his coat up. “See you later, Fancy Man.” He stalks away in a whirl of wool, John in tow.

“Insufferable prick.” Why Mummy didn’t drown him as child like I suggested remains a mystery. I cloak myself with my usual nonchalance, and head to the ambulance.

Gregory looks up as I approach. “Oh, god… I must be dying if you’re here.”

“You’re not going to hit me, are you? John says you had a go at Sherlock...”

“Not gonna hit you, Mycroft.  I would love to, but it won’t solve anything.”

“Most assuredly not.” Pointedly ignoring the fact that he’d like to hit me, I look him over, assessing the damage. Lump on the side of his head with a trickle of dried blood streaking past his temple, bits of gravel imbedded in his palms, and a dark bloodstain on the side of his shirt. On second glance, I take note of his bruised knuckles, his lack of a haircut, uneven shave, and the overall grey of his appearance. With a tisk of disapproval, I hook my umbrella on my arm, and step closer. “Oh, Gregory,” I whisper, inwardly cringing because I am painfully aware that I sound like a lovelorn teenaged girl. I clear my throat. “You don’t look well at all.”

“Yeah, ta.” He swallows hard, and ducks his head. “I’m all right. Just annoyed with myself for not watching more carefully. You… didn’t have to… I’m sorry. Sherlock must have nicked my phone.”

“It’s not a bother, and despite the annoyance that comes with dealing with Sherlock, I’m glad he called me. Are you all right?”

With a shaky smile, and a nod, he says, “Yeah, fine. Just… I told Henry his fine shirts were wasted on me. Knifed and bloody – he won’t be able to fix that.”

I look at the circle of blood on the side of his shirt and shake my head. “He’s seen worse, remember? But he will be most displeased if you get an infection and have to be hospitalised before he can get you in that robin’s egg pinstripe.”

“I wore an ecru shirt at the press conference, so he should be happy on that end.” He chuckles, then grasps his side with a moan. “God, that hurts.”

“You should let them see to you. If not them, let me call Dr. Sanjay. You could go into shock, or have a concussion.”

“I’m all right. It’s nothing to do with you, with… what happened. I’m not your responsibility, Mycroft. Donovan will come back for me. Sherlock shouldn’t have called you. Nosy git, always showing off. If he had just shut up, none of this would have happened. Too bad I missed hitting him.”

“Indeed,” I agree. “Gregory... you can’t sit here and bleed all over the ambulance. I won’t stay if I’m making you uncomfortable, but at least let John look you over…”

“Mycroft,” he sighs. After a few moments of silence, he says, “You look like hell. Not sleeping well?”

“Hm. Well enough.” I unhook my umbrella, and tap it on the ground. “It is of no consequence.”

“Is anything of consequence to you? Am I? Was I?”

“How can you ask me that?” My hands clench on the handle of my umbrella. “I told you exactly how I felt. I did not lie. And nothing has changed. Were you even listening?”

“Your actions spoke louder than anything you said, Mycroft. And what I heard was that your job is the most important thing in the world, and everything else can go to hell. And that ‘everything else’ included me was more than just a blow to my ego, it hurt. And while I was hurt, you ran me over.” He shakes his head. “The man I fell in love with has no moral compass, and no compassion. I have terrible taste in men.”

I fight the urge to impart a scathing remark and walk away. “I have come to the realization that part of making things right is the ability to admit being wrong.”

“How very zen of you,” he says with a smirk. “You plan on doing yoga next?”

“I am aware that the way that I have dealt with certain situations makes me a bad candidate for a… ah, boyfriend. Part of what makes my job work so well is that the ability to be detached, and I have carefully cultivated this part of my personality; the reasons for doing so are more complicated than we have time for right now. Suffice to say, my minor position in the British government does not allow for weakness. To consider you, your feelings, or your thoughts on the matter is a weakness. In my work, any weakness can be exploited, and I do not allow for that. But,” I put a hand on his arm, “I found that to have you, some changes were in order.  So, I went against my nature and took action.”

“Evans. Sherlock says you never change your mind once you’ve made it up. Why did you change your mind?”

I look at the tip of my umbrella. “I had my reasons.”

“That’s not an answer. Tell me why.”

“I was wrong.” Saying that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I press on for the sake of this relationship that I want so desperately to save. “It was the wrong decision. I told… someone that the needs of the many was the reason that I requested that we abort the mission. But it was a lie, and I generally try not to lie to the… well, I have never lied in that capacity before. All right, I have never lied and not deeply regretted it. I did lie and I did not regret it. Not one bit.”

“What did you lie about?”     

“It wasn’t the needs of the many, it was the needs of the one. You. You were disappointed in me, you were hurt, and you walked away from me. I hated that I’d done that to you, but I figured we would simply move on. When things didn’t smooth out and you left me, I determined to just move on and go back to the way I was before you. But I found that I couldn’t move on, couldn’t get you out of my mind. I had to fix it. And the only way to fix it – and believe me, I looked at this issue for hours and hours, but could not find an alternative to calling off the mission. And so I asked, and it was done.”

“I sent you a thank you text.”

“I got it. And cherished it, but I didn’t dare hope that it meant anything more than what you wrote. Regrettably, I could not answer you, Gregory. And even if I could, I had no idea what to say.”

His head tilts to look at me with amusement. “Maybe ‘you’re welcome, Detective Inspector’? Just a thought.”

“It did occur to me, but it sounded trite. And I was dealing with the situation in Greece.”

“Anthea said it cost you to do what you did. What did she mean?”

I raise my eyebrows and remind myself to have a talk with my suddenly chatty and easily charmed assistant. Not that many can resist the Lestrade charm…  “A high-ranking official owed me a favour. To countermand the order, I had to call in the favour. It is of no consequence, as the outcome broke a bit of the ice between us, as evidenced by your text. And Anthea is mistaken; it did not cost a thing, other than having to show some humility.” I allow myself a small laugh. “Appearing as though I was unable to handle the situation was a bit hard to do, but it was the only thing I could do to pave the way to fixing our relationship.”

“Mycroft…”

My eyes go to the wounds in his side. “Perhaps this conversation should wait until you’re not bleeding to death?”

“I’m all right,” he insists. “I just… I’m confused, and tired, and need to know what you’re thinking. Sherlock told me back in the beginning that you didn’t have relationships with people that you couldn’t control. Said something happened to you at Uni to make you that way.”

“My brother talks entirely too much.” I sigh. “Something did happen, and I recall mentioning it to you, albeit briefly, on Fat Tuesday.”

“I… sorry, I don’t remember.” He blushes and looks away. “Things were a bit heated.”

I smile briefly at the memory, then sober. “The whole story is yours, if you wish to hear it.”

“Later. We were talking about you controlling people.”

“Gregory, if I wished to control you, do you think that I, who had not had sex in years, would suddenly resort to using sex so as to control you? The bodily fluids alone that first time made me want to…” I stop at the frown on his face, and clear my throat. “At any rate, we already had a working relationship, and though I did have an advantage due to my somewhat minor government position, I never treated you with anything other than respect, correct?”

“Yes. But-“

“Allow me to continue. You are your own man, and ultimately, cannot be bought. I am aware that many have tried, and have failed miserably. My attempts to intimidate you were met with nothing but amusement. You indulged my demands on your time, but were by no means compliant or easily fooled, and you weren’t interested in a relationship with anyone other than your wife back then.”

“But when I was, you gave in so quickly… that’s why I thought you…”

 “If I wanted to control you, I would not have used sex, Gregory. And if I were to have to resort to such drastic measures, I’d have set my sights a little higher and sent an attractive operative to seduce the Superintendent. No offence,” I add quickly at his stricken look.

“No, no offence at all,” he snorts. “Higher sights.”

“I could mold and bend the Superintendent with ease, if that was what I wished to do; I cannot say the same for you, Gregory, because nothing about you is easy. My motive for getting to know you was at first was to ensure Sherlock’s well-being, but then became selfish, and somewhat lascivious. You were married then, and I knew it would go no further than my own fantasies. But then, you changed the rules, and now I find myself in a most difficult position.”

“Right.” he huffs. “Very difficult.”

“As loathe as I to admit it, my brother is correct in saying that I do not change my mind once I have determined a course of action.”

“Yeah, yeah…” he says, his tone flippant. “But you did. I get it, your great and noble sacrifice. Now what?”

“You need to understand the significance of me changing my mind. In doing so, I weakened my position. Though minor – no, don’t roll your eyes, Gregory. It is a minor position, but it is a position that I attained by cultivating a certain reputation that I am sure many would say is based on fear and intimidation. Those things, though crude, do serve a purpose. ”

“So, when the Iceman says it’s done, that’s it, right?”

“I do not think of myself as such, though I am aware that I may seem that way to some.” I hold his gaze for a long moment. “It is not unwarranted, but I do not like the name.”

He nods. “I can’t imagine that you would.”

I step closer, and move my hand from his arm to his shoulder. “I had not planned on telling you this while you are bleeding to death in the back of an ambulance, but since time is of the essence, I will let you know that I can no longer pretend that my feelings toward you have not changed. I had not ever expected anyone to care for me, to love me in the way that you do, but you do, and it frightens me that I can no longer control my own feelings.”

“Yeah?” He looks at me with a guarded look. “And so now what?”

“Well… I… there really is no better way to say it other than straight forward, I suppose.” I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “All right, then. I wanted to tell you that you mean the world to me. I didn’t think that I was capable of this type of feeling, but you, Gregory Ambrose Lestrade, won my heart through your own merit, with your charm, and your wit, and your uncanny knack of seeing straight through me. Knowing everything you do about me, knowing what I am capable of, that I keep secrets, and still be willing to lie beside me at night is very humbling, and a sign of the great man that you are. So… if you really wish to walk away from me, I will let you, but you will do so knowing that it will break me.”

He stares at me long and hard, weighing my words. “I won your heart?”

“You did.”

“I don’t… you said you… your heart?”’

The heat I feel creeping up my neck is embarrassing. “Gregory, please.”

“You actually… you love me?” He sounds like a child on Christmas who was given everything on his wish list. “I…that’s unexpected.”

“I find that I am... quite lonely without you. No one has concerned themselves with what I’m wearing, or called with random facts about James Bond. I…” I clear my throat. “I miss that. I miss you. I thought I would be fine, but I’m not. I… you, ah, should come back because…”

“Because…?”

“I need you.” My umbrella goes back on my arm, and I grab hold of the blanket, pull him forward slightly, and press my lips to his forehead. “Please let them see to you, Gregory,” I murmur against his skin. “I know nothing about love – what to do, how to do it, and everything I read on the subject makes me nauseous. And if you’re not around to help me with all these strange feelings, I’ll end up walking the streets, unwashed, raving like a lunatic.”

“You wouldn’t last ten minutes unwashed,” he laughs, then stops, and looks at me again. “Are you sure, Mycroft?”

“Yes.” And I mean it with all my heart. “Please.”

“Okay, then. Can you take me to your place, and call Dr. Sanjay so he can fix me? I’ve been craving Mrs. Landingham’s apple strudel, and I don’t want to die of an infection before I get some. We can talk about the rules, and love and how this is going to work after I’m all stitched up and get something for this headache.”

“I hope this change of heart isn’t down to your having a concussion,” I say, pressing another kiss to his forehead.

“And I hope you saying you love me isn’t a sign that I’ve got malaria from Arlo’s knives,” he counters.

“My life has been hellish without you. Will you help me fix this, fix us? Please?”

He swallows hard, then nods. “Yes, Mycroft. But I can’t promise that it will be easy, or that things will go back to how they were before straight away. But I’m willing to try if you are.” His arms go around my waist, and he tugs me closer. “I missed you, too. God…”

“You couldn’t have picked a worse time to get amorous, Gregory.” With him leaning against me, take out my phone, and call Anthea. “ _Hello. Please send Dr. Sanjay to my home patch up Detective Inspector Lestrade. And if you could advise Mrs. Landingham that she will have someone to eat her abominable strudel…an emotional display is quite unnecessary, my dear...yes, you were right, but we must talk about over-sharing... Contact Superintendent Thompson on behalf of the Detective Inspector, and push my entire calendar for two days. Send me a list of those who balk…”_ At Gregory’s slight shake of the head, I clear my throat. _“Make note of those who balk, but take no action. Talk later.”_ I put the phone away, and smile. “You can’t declaw me, Gregory.”

“I know, I know… baby steps.” He looks up at me and smiles. “I think that The Iceman has got to be the best Bond villain name ever. Imagine the weapons, the hideout, the crimes… and then, he meets Bond, and he’s… _melted_. That is brilliant.” His head rests on my shoulder. “I have to start writing this stuff down….”

I stroke his hair, and allow him the last word, because honestly, I’ve no idea how to respond to that.

***

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The ambulance tender moment was inspired by this picture by izzikins: http://izzykins.tumblr.com/post/20749428458/cuties-cuties-cuties.


End file.
